


Sui Generis

by manic_intent



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M, Slash, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-24
Updated: 2011-05-24
Packaged: 2017-10-19 18:10:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the kmeme, "Hawke becomes a dragon.  Bonus for non-cracky fill."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sui Generis

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I love dragons I cannot lie. :/ The least cracky of my Hawkes is Lionel. As it turned out, however, I misread the prompt ("Hawke is amazed by Flemeth's ability to turn into a dragon and decides she too must be one (male Hawke is fine too).") and ended up not exactly filling it... and then it became ridiculously long... as usual...

I.

Hawke slammed his weight against the ogre's fist with a grunt, knocking the blow off-kilter, and as the darkspawn monster roared in frustration, he ducked another swipe and swung his greatsword, tearing a jagged gash over the ogre's ribs.

“Carver!” Hawke roared, backing off, drawing the ogre away from his stunned family. “Guard Mother!”

“I don't need your suggestions!” Carver shot back angrily, and as Hawke rounded on his heel to check if his brother was obeying him, the ogre lowered its horns and charged with a bellow. Hawke scrambled to get out of the way as the monster ploughed a screeching furrow into the hapless hurlocks behind him, but he was knocked off his feet, the breath punched out of his throat. As he struggled to get up, dimly hearing Bethany screaming something, Carver's shouts, Aveline's war-cry, time seemed to slow; the ogre was pivoting, with far too much speed for something of that bulk, and a big fist was descending down upon him.

Pain flared starkly, then numbed to nothing as he coughed blood, his ribs shattering under the crushing grip, his the bones in his right leg snapping as he was slammed onto the ground and jerked back up into the air. Grimly, somehow, with the last of his strength, Hawke managed to find the will to raise his sword one last time, and thrust his blade forward, deep into the ogre's maw. The creature gurgled, choking, staggering back, then it was falling to its knees, and the ground was rushing up to meet him.

He couldn't see – his eyes were blocked by the bulk of the ogre's body – he was coughing wetly, punctured lungs, probably, but Hawke held on, willing himself to stay awake, to hold on just long enough to know if his family survived. _Please_ , he thought desperately. _Maker, please._

Something roared, loud even over the buzzing hum in his ears, loud enough to shake his broken frame, then as though distantly, Hawke could feel the temperature jump, flame crackling. Bethany, perhaps. Father had always been proud of her spells.

Cool hands pressed against his forehead, and Hawke choked as his head was lifted briefly, pressed onto a lap. Through his darkening vision, he could see Mother, and he frowned. “Are they... are you...”

“Don't speak.” Mother was holding back tears. “Oh, my Lionel... you'll... you'll be _fine_. You'll be just fine. Carver, Bethany, the armor, it's, we have to get it off, it's crushed.”

Carver was at his side, fumbling at ruined catches, then finally using a boot knife to sever the straps, then someone picked him up by the shoulder and shoved him to the side. Aveline, perhaps. Hawke's frown deepened as he tried to focus. Someone was speaking, a woman, someone whose voice he didn't recognise.

“Take that off as he is now and you'd kill him.” A blurred shape grew larger – white hair, horned shapes, the ghost of a sharp, merciless smile. “My, my. Still hanging on to life? My curiosity is piqued. And that's quite a feat, I assure you.”

“My family. Please.” Hawke managed to whisper, or hoped that he did, drowning slowly in his blood.

“Such a waste.” A gauntlet with metal tips pressed briefly over his face, turning his chin up as fingers curled under his jaw. “Perhaps... hn. I could use someone like you, stubborn child. Pledge yourself to my service, and I'll see what I can do. For you, your family and your friend over there.”

Hawke tried to speak, but could only nod, blinking as the metal-tipped fingers closed his eyes. He couldn't sleep yet. He had to _know_ -

-he was a dream of the wind itself, high up enough in the sky that the air was thin around him, cold enough that gouts of steam sleeted past his muzzle, the clouds a continuous, shifting bank of eternity beneath him, and he snapped his wings to himself, rolling down, catching streams of condensation and ice.

 _Mother?_

-he was ravening hunger, skimming low over the grasslands as the herd of black, long-furred waterbeasts fled, lowing and stampeding in fear, before him, and it was simplicity itself to drop sharply, land heavily on the grass, break the back of the fattest of the herd, and bleed it, fangs sunk into its neck, drinking deep until his blood was singing with the lust of the kill.

 _Carver?_

-he was contentment, belly stretched taut from the kill, lying on the warm sand and sunning his wings, hardly dignified as he rubbed his flanks against the sand, ignoring the birds that hopped by to pick over his scales for scraps and parasites, raising his head with a fluting whistle, mantling the fins over the arch of his back.

 _Bethany?_

Hawke sat up abruptly, with a hoarse gasp, startling Bethany, who was sitting beside him, into flailing. They were on the edge of a sloping cliff, overlooking a dark blanket dotted with a distant, orange glow. Lothering still burned. Before he could say anything, Bethany hugged him time, with a raw sob.

“You're all right!”

Awkwardly, Hawke patted his sister's shoulder, glancing around. Huddled against each other, asleep beside a fire, were Mother, Carver and Aveline. Frowning, Hawke glanced down at himself. His tunic was matted with old blood, as were his breeches, and his breastplate was gone, but otherwise, he was whole. “Your doing?”

“No. Flemeth – the Witch of the Wilds, she saved you. And the rest of us.”

“We're still far away from Kirkwall,” Hawke frowned. It would be a long trek to the closest harbor. “She did us ill service.”

Bethany was staring at him oddly, as she pulled back. “She said that you'd know what to do. We're to help her bring an amulet to Sundermount.”

Hawke supposed that it was better than nothing. He was alive, as was his family. “Wesley?”

“He... he didn't make it.” Bethany said, a little uncomfortably. Wesley was a templar, but Bethany was soft-hearted. “The taint got him.”

“We'll be more careful tomorrow.” Hawke squinted northwards, vainly trying to get his bearings. “If we avoid the roving patrols, we should make good time.”

“That's... not what she meant, I think.” Bethany was standing up, blinking owlishly at him. “I'm not sure. She just told me to tell you that dragons are little more than dreams of fire and flame.”

“Fire and flame?” Hawke shook his head slowly, in disgust. “Dragons? I don't like riddles.”

He felt uncomfortable even as he said so. The dreams were fresh in his mind, the cloud banks, the heady rush of the kill, the sand and the sun, and something _shifted_ in his mind, as though awakening, and he could feel himself growing _heavier_ , the ground dropping away from beneath his eyes, and as Hawke tried to take a step backwards in his astonishment, he realized that he was on all fours, and his legs were scrabbling for purchase on the edge of the cliff. He tried to speak, and managed a rumbling growl instead, loud enough that the others jerked awake at the fire, Aveline with her blade already half-drawn.

“Don't!” Bethany put herself between them, arms out-raised. “It's Lionel!”

“It's...? Oh, Maker,” Leandra turned very pale, and as Hawke tried to speak again, he snuffed a hiccup of flame instead, that nearly singed Bethany's hair.

“Bethany, come here. Now.” Aveline said, approaching them grimly, blade at the ready, her husband's shield already on her am. “Behind me.”

“I won't. I won't, he's my brother, I _won't_ ,” Bethany backed away from Aveline, and Hawke blinked as he felt a light touch on his arm, glancing down. Bethany had her palm pressed against his arm, which was... covered in dull, deep red scales...

In his astonishment, Hawke nearly fell off the edge of the cliff.

He must have cut a comical sight, looking wildly over at himself. Aveline was lowering her blade cautiously, as Hawke catalogued his sinuous tail, his wide, spreading wings, the flaring pale orange fins that ran down the arch of his back. A dragon.

He was a _dragon_.

“He's smaller than the witch,” Carver ventured, walking up to Aveline. At Bethany's furious glare, Carver scowled and sheathed his blade, and after a moment, Aveline also sheathed her weapon.

“He's still bigger than a small barn,” Aveline said, rubbing at her eyes. “Is this what the witch meant by 'help'?”

“We could fly to Kirkwall. To anywhere,” Bethany said, impulsively. “On his back.”

“Oh no. Oh _no_ ,” Carver objected quickly. “I can think of at least ten things that can go dreadfully wrong. Such as what will happen if he were to suddenly change back. In mid air. Won't that be fun.”

“I'll have to agree,” Aveline nodded, looking Hawke over dubiously. “He might eat us.”

“Lionel won't _eat anyone_! He could practice first.” Bethany folded her arms. “Come on. Like you have better ideas? And admit it,” she added, with a twin sister's sense of the kill, “You're just jealous that the witch taught Lionel how to turn into a dragon and not you.”

“Me? Why would I be jealous?” Carver glared up at Hawke, who was busy inspecting his wings, testing the flex and breadth of them. “Big brother is a dragon, and he somehow manages to look ridiculous. Let's see him try to fly first. I'll put a sovereign on him not knowing how and falling snout-first into the darkspawn.”

Hawke glowered at Carver, which seemed to come naturally to his shape. Carver, however, perhaps due to the persistence of resentful little brothers everywhere, didn't back down. “Well, try it.”

Hawke didn't exactly fall face-first into any darkspawn, but he did come close to bashing his muzzle against the ground as he barely managed to pull up out of the drop in time, wings flailing awkwardly. When he climbed laboriously up the side of the cliff, Carver was squaring off against Bethany.

“Pay up.”

“He didn't hit any darkspawn. And he managed to pull out of his fall. You owe _me_ a sovereign.”

Hawke blew a jet of flame a hand's breadth over Carver's hair, causing him to duck with a yelp before glaring at him. “You _sodding_ -”

“ _Carver_ ,” Mother snapped, as she regarded Hawke with red-rimmed eyes. “I... I don't know... oh, my Lionel,” she sighed, rubbing a hand briefly over her eyes. “What have I done?”

Instinctively, Hawke concentrated, thinking of a smaller, human shape, and he felt the weight drop from himself, his sight twisting lower, and as he flexed his shoulders and glanced down at his palms, he was satisfied to see human fingers. “It's our way out. To anywhere we want to go,” he said quietly, evenly. “I just need some practice. And then I'll get us out of here.”

II.

They skirted the Bannorn, following the snaking line of the Imperial Highway as it followed the shores of Lake Calenhad, and made good time. They had raided an abandoned rest stop along the Highway, despite Aveline's air of disapproval, and had taken as many supplies, blankets and sheets as they could carry, building a makeshift harness and bundling up for travel and the sharp winds from the altitude at which Hawke had to stay in order to keep more or less out of sight of anyone on the ground.

They needn't have worried; most of the peasants and merchants who usually lived along the Highway had long fled into the banns for refuge, away from the Blight, and when they found another abandoned traveller's inn within which to stop for the night, the only lights for miles seemed to be that of the distant Circle Tower. Even the darkspawn didn't seem to venture in their roving hordes this far north from Lothering, or at the least, they had long pushed on through the Bannorn towards Denerim. With little to kill or despoil along the eastern stretch of the Calenhad Highway route, the darkspawn seemed drawn instead towards the fertile banns and their desperate lordlings.

With Carver supporting Mother, and strapped down to his back with salvaged ropes, blankets forming makeshift saddles, the flights had been safe, at least, if uncomfortable for his passengers. Hawke had been getting the hang of the minimum-effort methods of flying, using his wide wingspan to catch updrafts rather than to constantly rely on himself to stay aloft.

He had thought that the difficult part would be trying _not_ to think too many human thoughts when in his scaly form, just in case he made a mistake. As it turned out, the opposite was true. Once he wore dragonscale, his human memories seemed to blur, becoming background noise. Instead, he remembered places that he had never encountered, experiences that he had never acquired, all in a confused jumble of visceral images that he had to concentrate to keep at bay. Draconic dreams, if that was what the images were, were fiercely simple, and bestial. Take away the myths and all a dragon seemed to be was a giant, hungry, flying lizard.

And he _was_ usually hungry, up in the air. Hawke could only thank the Maker that the draconic... infection... didn't seem to register the small, squishy humans on his back as food; in fact, it seemed that his 'human' protectiveness carried over. Whenever he thought of darkspawn, his mind was filled with fire. Hawke had, however, dropped a few feet in the air instinctively, late in the afternoon, at the sight of a stray, ragged herd of abandoned sheep grazing at the lake's edge, and only Bethany's startled yelp had shaken the reins of draconic hunger off his mind. After that, he was careful to keep a grim grip on himself.

“A day or so more, and we'll be at the shores of the Waking Seas,” Bethany said, as she sat beside him on the flat roof of the inn, her legs dangling over the edge, a bowl of stew in her lap. They were taking turns to keep watch for darkspawn, and the makeshift harness and saddles were draped on the roof, ready to be hauled onto Hawke's dragon form at short notice. Aveline and Carver had spent the evening shoring up the doors and barring the windows with planking and furniture parts, leaving only the stairway up to the roof.

“If we skirt the Tower and cross into the Three Fingers, we should be able to hide somewhere before making the crossing to the Planasene Forest. After that, it'll be a short hop to Kirkwall.” Hawke traced their proposed route on the map that Aveline had found in the previous rest stop on his knees, beside the partially shuttered lantern. He'd already eaten three bowls of the stew, and it was a relief to be able to feel full.

“And then no more flying for a while,” Bethany stretched luxuriously. “Maker. I think there're bruises on the bruises on my rump.” Hawke privately thought that he didn't want to know anything about his sister's rump, ever, and so he said nothing. Bethany glanced over at him quickly as he studied the map. “Not that I'm not, well, thankful, that we're making good time.”

“The Blight hasn't spread to the Planasene. We could take shorter flights from there.”

“Best not to,” Bethany lowered her voice. “Mother's nearly at the end of her tether. We should get her to her big house and her nice warm bath in Kirkwall. And then, after I've recovered,” she grinned, “We should go flying for the fun of it.”

“I thought you said it was uncomfortable.” Hawke said wryly.

“After the first few hours or so, yes. But at the start, it's like the biggest rush in the world! If I were you, I wouldn't ever want to change back.” Bethany declared, planting her hands behind her and looking up at the dark, painted bowl of the night sky. “I'll fly, and fly, and fly, and never come down again.”

“Even dragons can't stay aloft forever. They have to sleep. And eat.” Hawke reasoned, and frowned as Bethany cuffed him on the shoulder. “What was that for?”

“Weren't you tempted to do rolls in the air? Swoop down and sweep back up again, just for fun?”

Hawke blinked at her. “With all of you on my back? Even strapped on, you'll all have fallen off.”

“You're the most _dour_ dragon _ever_.” Bethany sighed gustily. “If _I_ were you-”

“Met many dragons, have you, sister?” Carver was hauling himself up onto the roof, padding over to sit down beside his twin sister, also dangling his legs over the edge, and ignoring her as she rolled her eyes at him. “Two more days of this or so and I'll hug the ground and never want to leave it again.”

“It's not that bad,” Bethany said mulishly. “But at least you didn't throw up on Lionel. You looked all green and sickly the first time we took off.”

“Yes, thank the Maker for small mercies,” Lionel murmured, as he searched out Sundermount on the map. The amulet that the witch had left them was warm in his pocket, and felt heavier than it looked.

“At least _I_ didn't squeal like a peasant girl receiving her first kiss the first time we took off,” Carvel said loftily.

“I did _not_.”

“Did _too_.”

Lionel automatically tuned out his squabbling siblings, checking their proposed route again on the map until he felt warm arms slide around his neck, Mother resting her chin on his shoulder, and Aveline going down on her haunches beside him, arms slung loosely over her knees. She inclined her head at him, her eyes still tight with a grief for her fallen husband that was still fresh, then she looked away, over at the calm stretch of lake before them.

“It's good to be alive,” Aveline murmured. “Thank you for taking me along. However unconventionally.”

“You don't have anyone else, so you'll have to bear with us,” Mother said, trying to keep her tone light, but it was far too threaded with weariness and worry. Awkwardly, Hawke reached up, briefly squeezing Leandra's right arm, over her elbow, in reassurance. Bethany was the best of all of them at dealing with Mother's constant worry over her children, whether because of Bethany's status as an apostate, or the Blight, or, at present, her apparent and misplaced guilt at Hawke's 'condition', but his sister was still busy trading verbal jabs with her twin brother to come to his aid.

“I could drop you somewhere if you don't wish to go all the way to Kirkwall,” Lionel offered instead, passing the map to Aveline.

“If you don't mind, I'll prefer to go to Kirkwall.” Aveline took the map, but didn't look at it, settling down, hugging her knees together. “Ferelden has too many bad memories for me right now.”

“What's another ten stone or so in weight to a dragon, eh?” Carver quipped, and yelped, “Hey!” when Bethany shoved him.

“That's rude, take it back!”

“ _You're_ rude, I nearly fell off the roof!”

“Are they usually like this?” Aveline asked Hawke.

“On their better days.” Hawke admitted. Worse days could range from anything to pranks with ice spells to nasty, dead and often foul surprises wrapped in Bethany's favorite clothes. “But I wouldn't have it any other way.”

“Though I was thinking,” Aveline sighed. “You're a soldier, aren't you? You and Carver. I can tell. Did you think, maybe, that now that you have your dragon... trick... that perhaps we could head east instead? Towards Denerim?”

“What?” Bethany and Carver said, in unison, blinking, even as Mother asked, “East?”

“A dragon would make a difference in the war, wouldn't it? You... I mean, you were indisposed during the battle, but that witch dispatched a small army of darkspawn in her dragon's form, as easily as a dog would shake off some water.”

“I fought the war for King Cailan, who was betrayed,” Lionel said neutrally, quietly. “I don't trust any of the factions warring for power now, like vultures picking over a corpse. And I won't risk my mother on a battlefield. But if you want to go to Denerim... it's out of our way. Perhaps-”

“No. No, you're right,” Aveline sighed, looking over at the distant lights from the Circle Tower. “It's not clear who betrayed who. I very much doubt it was the Wardens, but I can't be sure. I'll follow you to Kirkwall, Hawke.”

“Besides, they'd probably think that he's the Archdemon, with our luck,” Carver muttered.

“Carver,” Bethany said, reproachfully.

“All right, all right,” Carver held up his palms, in mock surrender. “I take that back. The Archdemon is a _much_ bigger dragon.”

“Lionel is already a very big dragon,” Bethany retorted loyally, even as Aveline covered her mouth, as if to hide a smile, despite her weariness and grief.

“The witch was bigger and that was a female dragon.”

“The witch was _older_. And what makes you think that female dragons are smaller? Maybe they're bigger!”

“Who died and made _you_ the dragon expert?”

“Now, Carver,” Leandra said patiently, “Even if Lionel is a small dragon, it's not his fault.”

“I'll take first watch,” Aveline decided, interrupting the bickering, even as Hawke pinched at the bridge of his nose. “You should _all_ get some rest. Now, please.”

III.

The flight over the Waking Seas had been difficult, fighting strong, damp winds on the cusp of rain, and Hawke was starving and exhausted by the time they finally sighted the Wounded Coast. His vision was sharper than it would be had he been human, and he turned his head as he saw a small herd of wild goats, cropping grass at the sandy edge of turf overlooking the beach. At his rumble of anticipation, however, Carver slapped a palm against his scaly flank.

“Put us down first, brother,” Carver's teeth were chattering. “Unless you _really_ want me to throw up on you. Did you _have_ to duck and weave like that the _whole_ way over the sea?”

“Carver's _really_ green, I don't think he's joking about throwing up,” Bethany agreed, sounding wary. “Over there. That sandbar. And then you can go catch us some lunch or something.”

Impatiently, Hawke obeyed, banking down as lightly as he could on the sandbar, and lying down on his belly until the small humans... _his family_ hopped off, Aveline helping down a shaky Leandra, then he sidestepped to get out of range of them before launching himself back up into the air.

The Wounded Coast was a rocky, sandy stretch of shore, dotted with caves and sparse belts of turf. As he swept closer, the goats scattered, shrieking in panic as he landed heavily, deftly snapping his jaws shut over the neck of the closest, then lunging forward to sink his fangs into the next, draining it greedily, the blood hot and thick in his mouth, _sweet_ , ignoring the animal's death throes as it kicked the last spark of its life into the sand. He should take flight again, bleed another while it was fresh, then fly inland, find a warm stretch of sand far away from the chilly, gritty winds from the sea, lie down and sun his belly while the afternoon was still young-

“Andraste's bloody _knickerweasels_ , a sodding _dragon_.”

The words were murmured under the speaker's breath, and were he human, he would never have caught them. Hawke dropped his kill, looking up sharply with a low, warning hiss. A man stood stock still under one of the few, spindly trees, wide-eyed, clutching a staff in his hands, tall for a human, with fine blonde hair bound tightly at the back of his head, dressed oddly in feathered pauldrons over a scruffy coat and tattered tunics and breeches. A basket sat discarded at his heels, filled with picked herbs.

The human held his stare for a moment, stunned, then as Hawke took a step forward, the man's nerve broke, and he started to run, sprinting down the slope, in the direction of the sandbar where Hawke's family was. Protective fury, bloodlust and an animalistic irritation at the interrupted feeding took over in a hot rush, and Hawke roared, lunging forward, his claws gouging furrows in the soil and rock. The man gasped some curse and swept his staff back behind him, and Hawke snarled as he slipped heavily, ice sheeting over stone under his claws, scraping his shoulder and flank heavily against a boulder.

Recovering his balance, he sprang, wings arced to stabilize himself, and had to hastily scrabble, backpedalling and flapping awkwardly to stop his own momentum as Bethany abruptly darted into his path, arms upraised.

“Lionel! What are you _doing_?”

“What are _you_ doing, girl?” the apostate grabbed at Bethany's shoulders. “Run!”

She shook him off and advanced slowly, palms up. “Lionel? Were you trying to _eat_ this poor man?” Hawke stared at his sister, astonished at the very question, and made a disgusted sound, shaking his head. Bethany thought that he was going to _eat_ the stranger? The apostate was scrawny as _anything_. And he didn't even look particularly _clean_.

And he was human. Of course. Which meant that eating him would be wrong. Right.

“You have a pet _dragon_?” The apostate breathed, his eyes wide as saucers. “And is that a bloody _harness_ on its back? You're Fereldan, aren't you? Sweet Andraste! Did you upgrade from horses and mabari since the last time I was there?”

“It's hard to explain. But Lionel is _very sorry_ for frightening you. Isn't he?” At Bethany's pointed glare, Hawke let out a deep, whistling sigh, and nodded his head curtly.

“All right. I'm definitely dreaming,” the apostate said slowly, and pinched himself on the arm. “Or not. Or maybe that last batch of elfroot was hallucinogenic.”

“Why don't you share our lunch?” Bethany patted the scruffy apostate soothingly on the arm. “To make up for your terrible fright. My name's Bethany. You've, um, met Lionel. And he didn't mean to scare you.”

“I'm Anders. It's nice to meet you, but, ah, I should go.” Hawke growled, eyeing the ungrateful apostate, and Anders hastily amended, “But, I'm sure that I can spare some time to have a nice, ah, lunch.”

“Something's wrong?” Aveline was approaching, her hand on the hilt of her blade, looking warily between Anders, Bethany and Hawke.

“No,” Bethany said quickly. “Anders, this is Aveline, a friend of the family. Aveline, Anders is going to join us for lunch. While Lionel goes to pick up... whatever he killed.”

Aveline glanced at the blood on Hawke's mouth thoughtfully. “Are you sure that there's anything left for us?”

“I'm so pleased to meet all of you,” Anders said faintly.

With a derisive snort, Hawke picked his way back up the slope, quickly tearing into the goat that he had blooded, eating his fill even as the human part of his mind protested vehemently for a moment before giving up and standing in a corner of his mind, holding its figurative nose, then he gingerly picked up the remaining corpse. As an afterthought, he also carefully picked up the apostate's basket with a claw.

Anders flinched violently when Hawke landed near the makeshift camp and deposited the goat beside Carver, then dropped the basket beside him. “Uh. Thank you.”

His hunger briefly abated for the moment, Hawke nodded solemnly at Anders and ambled further up the sandbar, curling up on the warm sand, keeping a careful eye on the coast. A part of him tried to think annoying, _human_ thoughts, but the warming sun and a sated belly swatted those aside.

“So, how did you get a pet dragon?” Anders was asking Bethany after a round of introductions, as at the sounds of it, a fire had been built up, and Leandra was probably filleting the meat.

“Long story,” Carver cut in, before Bethany could say anything, and Hawke felt vaguely relieved. Explaining that a witch had saved them from a bunch of darkspawn and then had turned Hawke into a dragon felt like a far more unbelievable story than one of hatching and taking care of a dragon egg, or something slightly less improbable. “You're an apostate, aren't you? You have a staff. And only mages are crazy enough to think that wearing feathers on their shoulders looks good.”

“That's not a very nice thing to say,” Anders said dryly. “Your sister has a staff too, by the way, and I can surmise that she's also a mage, given how all of you are so refreshingly friendly to a mage stranger, but you don't see me calling her names, do you?”

“Carver's not a very nice person sometimes,” Bethany agreed. “Are you from Kirkwall?”

“I... run a clinic there,” Anders said delicately. “Or I'm trying to. I was running out of supplies, so I had to come out to the Wounded Coast to get some.”

“What's it like in Kirkwall?” Bethany asked, impulsively. “I've heard stories about the Gallows.”

“If you stay away from Hightown and the Gallows you'll be fine. But you'll have to be careful. Still,” Anders added lightly, “I'm not sure why I'm telling a girl with a _pet dragon_ to be careful. If you're thinking to get into Kirkwall, you'll have to leave it outside, though. Your Lionel's going to be rather difficult to pass off as a big mabari.”

“That... won't be a problem,” Bethany sounded faintly amused, even as Carver muttered, “He sometimes does _act_ like a mabari.”

“He does _not_.” Hawke could hear the scowl in Bethany's voice.

“Does too. Watch.” Hawke nearly raised his head from the warm sand as he heard Carver's footsteps approaching, at the creak of cracked leather breeches and the faint scrapes of his greaves, then he made an annoyed, rumbling sound as a gloved hand splayed on the arch of the spur of bone over his right eye. Carver was _petting him_ , like he would pet a dog. Irritated, Hawke was contemplating whether Mother would get upset if he were to pick Carver up and bodily toss him into the Waking Seas, when Carver scratched rough fingers under the tapering fin just under the root of one of the curved horns on his head.

Carver hesitated when Hawke's... _body_ purred, in a loud, liquid rumble, as surprised as Hawke himself, then he laughed and used both hands and Hawke was shifting in the sand and flaring the fin to give Carver's finger more space, with a deep, contented sigh, despite his human side's mortified consternation. Dimly he could hear Bethany's delighted giggle, then she was scratching under his jaw, and life was too good to listen to the niggling sense of outrage at the back of his brain.

“Maker. He's just like a cat.” Anders' voice came from a respectful distance, if a little closer, and he sounded fascinated. “A giant, scaly, fire-breathing one.”

Hawke snorted, closing his eyes. Perhaps later, if Carver tried to mention anything about about kittens and enjoying the attention, _then_ he'd toss his brother into the sea.

IV.

When he woke up, there was a weight pressed against his muzzle, and thankfully, Hawke opened his eyes first before shaking it off. Bethany was sprawled against him, sound asleep, though she sat up with a yawn and rubbed at her eyes when he shifted a fraction. The sun was lower in the sky, and the apostate was nowhere to be seen. To his right, Carver was talking to Aveline, and they were running whetstones over their blades. Mother was sitting on a rock, looking out over the sea.

“Anders had to leave. But he showed us a way into Kirkwall that we could use,” Bethany said, as Hawke rolled himself to his feet, careful of his sister, and took over, his draconic sense of self too sleepy to object. He staggered on his first step as a human, and his shoulders felt too light, but Hawke quickly righted himself with his next step, stretching and rolling his shoulders. Absently, he scrubbed at his mouth, and was vaguely glad when his hand came away clean.

“What's wrong with the main entrance?”

“Apparently Kirkwall's decided that it's full up on Fereldan refugees,” Aveline said, from where she sat. “I don't like it any more than you do, Hawke, but we should get your family into Kirkwall before nightfall. I have some savings that we could use to buy some rooms for the night, and then we can look up your family come the morning.”

“There's no need for that,” Mother said quickly, glancing over at them. “I know where the family estates are. I'm sure...” she paused a little, then she sighed, staring down at her hands. “I might not be in the best of my brother's graces, and he seldom replied to any of my letters, but I doubt that he'll turn us away.” She rose from the rock, squaring her shoulders. “Let's go. I'll just eat some crow and humble pie, and then we'll all have warm beds to look forward to.”

The 'other way' into Kirkwall turned out to be some sort of smuggler's tunnel that wound through several dank, dark caves before finally emerging out into a stairway that was haphazardly paved with stone. Aveline took point, while Hawke brought up the rear; the tunnels were a maze of forking paths and side passages, but Anders had left them a map, apparently drawn with a bit of pencil and a scrap of paper that the apostate had, according to Carver, produced quite randomly, from his jacket pockets. The paper was scrawled full of spidery text on the other side, in some sort of strange discourse about mages and the Chantry that even Bethany had grown bored of when perusing.

The passage opened up into a foul-spelling warren of sewer tunnels, and when they finally climbed up a rank passageway into a wide, high-ceilinged space, even Aveline was coughing from the acrid stench.

“This is Darktown,” Mother said, looking around her, with an oddly wry, fond smile on her face that made Hawke frown.

They seemed to be surrounded by the dregs of humanity; beggars were clustered on stairs and against rotting pillars shored up with crates and abandoned sacks of rubbish, the air smelled only marginally cleaner than the sewers from which they had emerged, and the few people who walked past them did so with the vacant eyes of the destitute. To his right, a group of beggars in rags huddled around a small fire, mumbling between themselves, and a few merchants half-heartedly hawked their wares on a platform to the north, up a narrow stairway.

“I'm not sure what part of this place inspires fondness,” Carver echoed his thoughts, for once.

“I met your father here,” Mother admitted, her eyes distant. “I was a little wild when I was a girl, and Gamlen said that I wouldn't dare come to Darktown. My cousin Revka stoutly said that I would, and so the two of us snuck down here by ourselves, and promptly became lost, and then we ran into a Carta thug.”

“Father got to play knight in shining armor?” Bethany asked, looking curious. Mother had never been one for elaborating much about her life prior to Lothering, even when Father had been alive – she had always smiled, a little sadly, as though it pained her.

“Oh no,” Mother laughed. “Your aunt Revka kicked the thug in the... well, in an inappropriate place for a lady of wealth and breeding, and while running for it, I'm afraid that we trampled over Malcolm on our way up some stairs. He was gracious enough to laugh it off and walk us back to Hightown, even though it meant that he might run into templars along the way. Revka always resented him for 'stealing her thunder'.” Her smile faded, all too quickly. “Poor Revka. Having Daylen taken away from her... it broke her heart.”

Making their way through Darktown felt all too sober after that. Thankfully, it wasn't nightfall yet, or perhaps Aveline's air of determination deterred thugs, but they made it to Hightown during the early evening without attracting any criminal elements. Leandra's step quickened once they were in Hightown, her back straightening into an unconscious poise that must once have been habitual, and they followed her past stately mansions and perfectly trimmed gardens, feeling scruffy and out-of-place even on the slowly emptying streets. Even the guard patrols in Hightown seemed better polished, nodding polite greetings at them as they went past.

Eventually, they came up to the door of a mansion tucked in the corner of Hightown, recessed under a marble archway grown thick with ivy and intertwined ashwood branches, and Leandra hesitated. “This is it.” She twisted her hands together, nervously. “I don't know, do you think he's home?”

“This isn't a good time to grow shy,” Carver shouldered past, walking right up to the door and knocking loudly. “Since we're already here.”

“We're here for help, Carver,” Mother sighed. “We're going to have to be humble, and polite. Which means, I'm sorry to say, that you and Lionel should please, please restrain yourselves from-”

The door opened inward, cutting off Mother's words, to reveal a heavily armed, thickset thug who looked and smelled like he was fresh out of Darktown, broad-shouldered and bald, with a white scar running over his cheek. “What do you want?”

Mother looked too taken aback to say a word, but Aveline walked up to Carver's side as he opened his mouth. “We're looking for Gamlen Amell. These people are his family.”

“His family, you say?” The thug looked them over, and Hawke narrowed his eyes as the brute's gaze lingered a little too long on Bethany. “Well, well. Come on in.”

“I think not,” Hawke said flatly. “ _Where_ is Gamlen Amell?”

The thug sneered at him. “And what's it to you, doglord?”

“They must be burglars,” Leandra concluded, wide-eyed. “Oh, Gamlen! They must have done something to my brother!”

The thug managed to get as far as, “Now _see here_ , Fereldan _bitc_ -” before Hawke snapped his head back with a sharp uppercut, annoyed. The thug collapsed as though poleaxed.

“Let's find Gamlen,” Hawke said flatly. “Mother, get the city guard. Aveline, Carver, Bethany, with me.”

“At your side, Hawke.” Aveline said grimly, raising her shield as she strode into the mansion.

The mansion looked like it had been looted, stripped bare of anything valuable, and they managed to take the band of lowlifes in the foyer by surprise. The last burglar screamed when Hawke advanced on him, dropped his blades, and ran for what looked like the servant's quarters. They pursued him, through the kitchens and down into a cellar, and right into another pocket of burglars, who were busy manhandling a gagged and bound train of five frightened-looking women, two of them elvhen.

“What are they doing to the servants?” Aveline said, with disgust, as she charged, ramming her shield into the first, shocked thug, slamming him off his feet, then drawing her blade in a tight arc to cut the throat of the next. They had the element of surprise again, and Bethany's ice spells and their blades made short work of the slavers. Aveline set to freeing the servants, who looked shell-shocked, huddled together, the slightest one even bursting into tears.

“It's all right, you're safe now,” Bethany said soothingly. “Where's Gamlen? He's our uncle.”

The servants stared at her, blinking uncomprehendingly, then one of the elvhen women asked, “Gamlen, serah?”

“Or Lord Amell, or whatever he's called, the owner of this mansion?”

“We're wasting time, sister,” Carver said impatiently, “The burglars must have kidnapped him, like they were taking these women, probably for ransom.”

“Go and wait upstairs,” Aveline told the servants decisively. “The city guard will be coming soon. Tell them where we are.”

They had found and freed two other shackled trains of frightened people by the time the city guard finally caught up with them, in the form of a group of wary guardsmen led by a mouse-haired woman with a hard set to her jaw. “All right, what's going on here?”

“These people saved us!” One of the female elves in the group they had just cut loose burst out. “I was just in the Hightown market, serah, walking home in the evening, when these men dragged me into an alley, and oh...” The elf began to sob, but her wrecked sounds of fright were quickly drowned out by the clamor of the others that they had freed.

“Calm down, everyone.” The guardsman raised her arms. “My name's Brennan. If you'll all give Sergeant Evans here your names and addresses, you'll all be free to go. Now, please.” She waited impatiently as one of the guards began to corral the women away, and then she sighed. “A bloody slaver operation, right under our noses, in Hightown. Heads are going to roll. Blast. And who are you lot?”

Bethany blinked. “Slavers?” just as Carver said, “What?”

“We're the relatives of Gamlen Amell,” Hawke said slowly, feeling a vague headache coming on. “And I think that there's just been a grave misunderstanding.”

“Gamlen? The only Gamlen I know's always feet first in trouble. Gambling habit. Hasn't got two coins to rub together,” Brennan said, though her expression softened as she looked over at Bethany's evident confusion. “Look. I'll get someone to fetch him. But in the meantime, why don't all of you come over to the Keep until this mess gets sorted out.”

“Are we under arrest?” Aveline asked, frowning.

“Maker, no. But I'm knee deep in corpses and hysterical women,” Brennan pointed out dryly, “I like my prime witnesses right where I can see them.”

V.

The guard captain was a sallow, rat-faced bastard of a man called Jevan, and he seemed fixated on the idea that they had all broken into the estate and killed its rightful inhabitants, despite all evidence to the contrary and Brennan's report. After about an hour of futile argument in the interrogation chambers under the Keep, Aveline looked ready to break Jevan's nose, and Hawke was seriously contemplating either allowing her to do it, or punching Jevan himself. From Carver's stormy expression and twitching fingers, it looked like his younger brother was also thinking along those lines. Bethany looked too exhausted to be outraged, seated on a chair beside Mother with an arm around her shoulders.

Just as he was about to reach over the table and smash Jevan's face onto the cracked wood, the door to the chamber opened, and a portly man minced in, dressed in a rich doublet and britches in deep hues of sea green and purple, gold chains festooned over his fat wrists and his shoulders, his bulbous nose wrinkled and calculating eyes narrowed as he looked them over. “Captain Jevan. Thank you for your message.”

“Sent a man as soon as I heard, Morley.” Jevan straightened a little, and Aveline's scowl deepened. Obviously, the guard had just been stalling until 'Morley' arrived.

“So I hear that a gang of thugs broke into my estate and murdered the help.”

Hawke saw red, a whisper of flame twisting tight in his mind, but Carver had grabbed him by the wrist as he took a menacing step forward, and he took a quick, shallow breath. Aveline, however, was already snarling in Morley's face. “Your 'estates' were hiding a _slaver_ operation! Right in Hightown! Wait till the Viscount hears about this, you bloody arsehole, and you dare imply that we're burglars and murderers? So help me, I don't need weapons to break your flaming neck!”

“The Viscount does not entertain audiences with any rag tag bunch of commoners off the streets,” Jevan said flatly. “And the guardsmen with you will correlate our story. As will, no doubt, the surviving witnesses.” _If they know what's good for them_ , Jevan's tone implied.

“Let's kill these two bastards,” Hawke said quietly, fighting the sudden, heady impulse to turn dragon – if he did so in this chamber, which was less than half of his dragon's bulk, he'd accidentally kill them all. “Then we just need to get out onto an open space and we can leave.”

“You-” Jevan got as far as a hand on his blade before Hawke kicked sharply at the edge of the table, slamming it into his midriff, then as he stumbled back with a crash, Carver was on his back, disarming him deftly and sliding the longsword over the table to Hawke, then pulling out the guard's boot knife and holding it up against Jevan's throat as he snarled and struggled.

“Careful, 'Captain'. I'm hungry, and cold,” Carver observed mildly. “My hand might slip.”

Jevan froze, even as with a squeak, Morley tried to back out into the startled guards beyond, only to be yanked back by Aveline, then he stilled with a choked sound as Hawke pointed the edge of the blade against his fat throat.

“We only need one hostage,” Hawke said conversationally, with deadly calm, “And I think the guard captain would be lighter to move around even in his armor than you.”

Morley was sweating, pale and trembling. “Per...perhaps we could come... come to an agreement-”

“That's Morley for you. Full of agreements.” An amused drawl floated through the door, and an eccentrically dressed dwarf in an open shirt and trenchcoat was standing just beyond it, smirking at them, clapping his gloved hands slowly and deliberately, a small posse of heavily armed dwarves behind him, eyeing the other guards meaningfully. “Seriously though. I never thought that you were so... stupid. By all reports, this gang of 'thugs' broke into the old Amell estate, killed the best of Jayson's men and broke up his operation without even breaking a sweat, and you still have the balls to come in here and threaten them about it. Funny story.” The dwarf's smirk widened. “Wonder what Jayson will make of it. Nasty little flesh traffickers, they do so like to point fingers.”

“You... you...” Morley slowly turned red. “Varric, you followed me here from the meeting?”

“'Course,” Varric continued, ignoring him, “I'll also love to know what the Merchant's Guild would think about this. We do so like to keep most of our operations above ground, and slavery is a big no-no, even for the Guild. Hell, it's a no-no for the _Coterie_. Someone's been so naughty.” He glanced over at Hawke. “You could kill him if you want. Maker knows that sometimes I'm tempted. Or you could let him walk, and tomorrow I'll ruin him for you. What say you?”

“What do you get out of this?” Hawke demanded, suspicious.

“You don't know what sort of favor you've just handed the Tethras family. The Merchant Guild's a pack of scrambling rats all going for the top of the cheese pile, and there's enough evidence here to knock out one of the biggest, fattest ones,” Varric smirked. “And now I also have something on the dear guard captain, don't I? Won't it be _such_ a pity if the Viscount were to hear about this?”

“Lionel,” Mother said quietly from her chair. “Listen to serah Varric. I know Morley's sort. Ruining him would be a greater blow to him than a quick death. And if we killed them both, we'll have to leave Kirkwall.”

“That house that we 'broke into'. It belongs to my family. I want it back.” Hawke said flatly, after a moment's pause, glancing over at Morley. “You're going to send someone to get the title deeds. And then you're going to sign the property over to my mother.”

“By a funny coincidence,” Varric opened his palm, and a dwarf beside him placed a sheaf of yellowing parchment into it, bound neatly by a leather scroll. “I had someone 'discover' this in Morley's place, all quietly, before I got here. Don't look so surprised, Sunshine,” Varric told Bethany, who had her mouth open in shock. “The whole of Hightown heard you asking after 'Gamlen Amell' before you broke up the slaving operation. Now, Morley, you'll just sign there, and there. Good. What was your name again, milady?”

“Leandra Amell,” Mother said, with a wry, if faint smile.

Varric scribbled onto the yellowed documents, then he ambled over to hand the whole sheaf of deeds to Mother in a flourish. “There you go. All fixed.”

“This is... this is _robbery_ and blackmail, Varric!” Morley seemed to have recovered his breath. “I'll complain to the Guild!”

“Right, right. Love to hear you talk your way out of this one.” Varric smirked. “My brother's already explaining the situation to them, with some choice witnesses to back him up. I've rounded up those poor girls you tried to sell off, before Jevan's thugs spirited them off somewhere. The guard still has some decent folk, a couple of them hid the girls somewhere in Darktown. We'll help them get back to their families.”

“Thank you, serah,” Bethany said, with a big smile.

“Don't thank him, I'm sure that _we_ owe him a big favor now, as well,” Carver groused, as Jevan stopped struggling and cursing. “On top of the 'favors' that we handed over to him on a silver plate.”

“All of you can come with me. My brother's mansion isn't far off, and we're going to be busy through the night with the guild. After that, I'll get someone I know to fix up your place.” Varric said blithely, looking amused again.

“At a price, no doubt.” Aveline said sourly. “Slaver operations, slimy merchants and corrupt guardsmen... I'm enamoured of Kirkwall already.”

“Please forgive them, it has been a most trying day,” Leandra rose to her feet, her tone studiously gracious. “You have done us a good turn, serah Tethras, when you had no need to. I will not forget it.”

Varric gestured at the guards around him, who filed into the room to take custody of Morley and Jevan. “Come on. You'll all feel more civilized with some hot food and warm beds.”

Hawke paused beside Morley on their way out, eyeing the fat man carefully over, then he drew his fist back and swung. The merchant staggered back with a shrill squeal, cradling his broken jaw, and Hawke inclined his head curtly at him before taking up the rear, following the rest of them out and up onto the main floor of the Keep. The draconic part of him was unsatisfied, but it subsided, with a final, echoing growl within his mind.

Varric glanced behind them, with a low whistle, eyebrows raised. “Hn. Remind me not to ever get on your bad side.”

VI.

As it turned out, Gamlen Amell was indeed a useless streak of piss who, but for a certain resemblance about the eyes, did not seem related to their mother at all. It seemed that he had gambled away the estates, and now eked out a wretched living in Lowtown. He did, however, seem to have an ear to the ground for trouble, and after the first, exceedingly awkward meeting in the slowly refurbished estates, courtesy of the Tethras family, had provided them with an introduction to one of Jayson's main enemies in Kirkwall, Meeran of the Red Iron.

Meeran was a gruff, unforgiving sort, but he kept his hands to himself around Bethany and he paid in good coin, and more importantly, he kept Jayson off their backs. Varric had made it clear, if apologetically, that the Merchant Guild had limited influence where the black market was concerned, and ties with the Coterie or not, they were on their own with Jayson.

Aveline took up a position with the city guard, despite her reservations, under Brennan's urging that they needed good men and women in the guard, and slowly, they settled into a life in Kirkwall. Once matters had run into routine, Hawke began to get into the habit of leaving the city, about once a week or so, to change out into his dragon form and take flight, to take away the frustrated pressure from his draconic side. And, much as he would never admit it, flying for the sake of flying was like a rush that he had never felt before, a mindless thrill of utter freedom that he would never have allowed himself to indulge in, in his human form.

Besides, he had to learn how to keep control of the dragon's mind through any circumstances. Being unable to change back to human after crossing the Waking Seas had been thoroughly disconcerting.

He was winging his way back from a long circuit over the Planasene when he spotted a now familiar, scruffy figure wandering over a patch of shrubs in the Wounded Coast, a basket on his arm. They had encountered Anders again in Kirkwall when on business for Meeran, sniffing out an informant; the apostate was running some sort of free clinic in Darktown, against all common sense. Anders had looked around wildly when he had recognised them, as though expecting a dragon to unfold from a dark corner, and had only calmed down a little when Bethany had laughed. Hawke hadn't been so sure what to make of him, particularly now that they seemed to run into Anders fairly often whenever they had business in Darktown. The apostate seemed harmless, but he'd warned Bethany against getting involved in his insane breed of altruism.

A flash of silver caught his eye – a templar patrol was heading up the path, towards where Anders was, and neither party seemed to have noticed each other. Hawke hesitated, circling overhead. The dragon part of him was all for attacking – it was bored – and after a moment, Hawke supposed that he concurred. Bethany also liked to come to the Wounded Coast now and then to walk on the beach, and the fewer templars hereabouts, the better.

The templars froze still when he dropped down low enough to be seen, then they took a collective step back when he roared at them, breathing out a warning gust of flame. Hawke had meant to scare them off, but at the back of the team of templars, the archer of the group notched an arrow to his bow and let fly, and Hawke was too close to roll out of range.

He let out a bellow of shock and outrage as the arrow embedded itself high on his chest, where hardened scale gave way to a dragon's softer underbelly, then the dragon part of him shouldered him aside, furious. Hawke brought himself up into the air, winging in a tight semi-circle before swooping lower, snapping his jaws shut over the archer's torso with a heavy _crunch_ of bone and metal, then tossing the broken body aside with a sharp jerk of his muzzle as he took himself up and out of the arc.

One of the templars lost his nerve, making a break for the coast with a scream of fear, and with another roar, Hawke dropped out of the sky, landing on the templar and breaking his neck, before whirling around and breathing a gout of flame at the remaining pair. Blinded, they raised their shields, and Hawke surged into the air, circling overhead as they started to run in panic. Picking them off was too easy, and at the end of it, Hawke alighted on an outcrop, breathing out a gust of flame, mantling the fins on his back with a roar of victory, the bodies lying in broken heaps down below, leading towards the coast.

He looked down sharply at a scrape of rock, and somewhat to his surprise, saw Anders climbing carefully up to him. “Hold still, and don't eat me,” Anders looked pale as he scrambled up onto the outcrop. “I'll need to get that arrow out.”

Hawke stared at Anders for a long moment, then he made a gruff sound and relaxed, edging to the side so that Anders had enough space to stand. The apostate examined the arrow, then he set his palm on Hawke's flank. “I'm going to pull it out,” he said, trying to sound soothing, then muttered, “Bloody Andraste, I'm trying to get myself killed.”

He let out a sharp, pained grunt when Anders pulled the arrow out with a practised jerk of his wrist, then Hawke subsided as healing magic knitted the wound together. “There. All better.” Anders gingerly patted his scaly side. “Thank you.” Hawke snorted. “I know. You've probably been trained to eat templars, and I just happened to be in the vicinity... but thank you.” The apostate let out a slightly hysterical laugh. “When I was a boy, in the Circle, I used to dream of having a pet tiger that would swat away templars for me. I guess Bethany went one up on me on that.”

Hawke made a querying whistle as Anders sat down beside him, dangling his long legs over the edge of the outcrop. “It must be lonely out here by yourself. I hope Bethany comes to see you often. No, she probably does,” Anders said, looking over at his harness. “Funny thing, I met her and her brothers only this morning, again, in the Lowtown markets, when I was buying some bread. She was arguing with Carver, and Lionel was just standing around looking as though he couldn't decide whether to step in or knock their heads together.”

Hawke had been leaning towards the latter when Bethany and Carver had argued about the correct way to pronounce the name of some sort of Orlesian vegetable, and he nodded, with soft, rumbling growl. Anders grinned back at him. “I didn't meet him that time, during that goat lunch – Bethany said that he was already on business in Kirkwall. Your namesake, that is, er, Lionel. Bethany clearly worships him, I mean, she named her pet after him after all. It must have been a long time ago that she got you.” Anders added, thoughtfully. “I mean, probably before she found out that dragons are all female. If she ever did find out.”

At Hawke' startled gasp, which emerged as a fluting whistle, Anders chuckled. “Of course you knew that. The wingless ones, the drakes, are male. The ones that can fly are female. Anyone with a Circle education would know that. I guess Bethany really still doesn't know?”

Astonished and deeply mortified, Hawke tried not to make it look too obvious that he was looking himself over for... female parts... not that he knew what a dragon's female parts would look like... Certainly, he hadn't thought very much about his current body's make up, other than the bits that allowed him to fly and breathe fire, and it was a great shock to realize... to think... Still, it wasn't as though he had started, thank the Maker, to entertain any thoughts about-

Sweet Andraste, he hoped that Carver never, _ever_ found out about this.

“Dragons your size are immature females, anyway,” Anders was still talking. “Won't be interested in making out lairs and laying eggs for at least another century or so.” He chuckled again. “I'm not sure whether I should raise the matter with Lionel – the human Lionel,” he amended, when Hawke let out another fluting whistle. “I'll probably end up with my nose broken.” When Hawke nodded solemnly, Anders grinned up at him. “Yes, you're familiar with the man in question, aren't you? It's a pity,” Anders added, with a deep sigh. “He's _very_ handsome, and the way he carries himself, with that air of confidence and danger... I tried flirting with him – I know, very ill-advised – but I think that he's just oblivious to anything that doesn't involve his family or violence.”

Hawke stared at Anders, startled yet again, but surprise evidently didn't register well on a dragon's features; Anders didn't seem to notice. Anders had...? Hawke _had_ noticed that Anders seemed more friendly when Bethany and Carver were out of earshot, but he'd been too busy keeping an eye on his wayward siblings to make any non-monosyllabic responses.

“Granted, given my luck in life,” Anders was pulling himself to his feet with a sigh, “He probably prefers women. The way he acts like I'm just part of his immediate background, he likely wouldn't even notice if I asked him straight out to bend me over the nearest flat surface.” The apostate patted him gingerly again on the flank when Hawke blinked. “Well. Thanks again for the save, and for listening. I had better get back to my clinic.”

Hawke spent a long time staring out over at the Waking Seas as the surf broke against the beach, the human part of his mind reeling, even as the draconic part of him grew impatient for the open sky.

VII.

“I'm _never_ going to get used to flying,” Carver moaned, when Hawke landed carefully outside the Dalish encampment and lay down to let his passengers off his back.

“Stop complaining.” Bethany climbed down regretfully, followed by Carver, then Hawke willed himself into the change. They were far enough from Kirkwall, and besides, the Dalish were very unlikely to tattle.

The guards at the entrance to the camp watched them warily, but seemed unsurprised that a dragon had just turned into a human before their very eyes. “You are expected, _Uth'era_ ,” the female of the pair said quietly. “Keeper Marethari awaits.”

The Dalish encampment was an orderly affair, with their strange, land-ship like caravans neatly lined in a row, the placements in such a manner that they could soon turn into defensive cover for the inhabitants if required. Children quickly squirrelled out of sight at their approach, and soon, the camp was mostly empty of clear non-combatants. The rest didn't outwardly seem as though they were watching the humans in their midst, but Hawke had no doubt that they were ready to react if required.

The Keeper stood by a bonfire, watching their approach with stillness to her that bordered on unnerving. She had odd, bronzed tattoos on her tapering features, and her eyes were wise and warm as she looked them carefully over. “ _Uth'era_ ,” she addressed Hawke, with a faint inclination of her head. “You have the amulet with you?”

“What's that word?” Bethany asked, ever curious. “'Uthera'?”

“It is our name for those of the dragonkin who were not born with fang and scale,” the Keeper said gently. “'The long dream'. Be careful, child. There is a light within you. Be wary that you do not lose it to your dreams of fire and flame.”

“Figures,” Carver muttered, even as Bethany said, with a touch of heat, “The dragon isn't _evil_.”

“I did not say that it was, _da'len_ ,” the Keeper said mildly. “Only that your brother should be careful. Few dreamers as he keep their sense of self, given a year, given ten, or a hundred. There are only two of which I know of, and one you have already met, the owner of the amulet in your keeping. Time slides past you, and as you watch those you love grow old and pass on before you, sometimes it seems easier to give in. To forget.”

Bethany looked uneasily at Hawke, but Carver shrugged. “Giving in is one of the things that my brother isn't _good_ at, at least.”

“We're wasting time,” Hawke said brusquely, unsettled by the Keeper's words. He couldn't contemplate a future where he stayed frozen in time, alive for centuries, while his family died and turned to dust before him. He didn't _want_ to. “Take the amulet.”

“The amulet is not meant to be given to me, _Uth'era_ ,” the Keeper said, a little apologetically. “It is to be brought to the top of the mountain, for a ritual. My First will go with you, to assist you in performing it.”

“I knew that this was too easy,” Carver grumbled. “At least we don't have to climb the bloody mountain. I think that I'll dislike that marginally more than flying to the top of it.”

“My First is awaiting you on the slope leading up the mountain. _Dareth shiral, Uth'era_.” The Keeper bowed her head. “May I ask one favor of you?”

“What now?” Hawke asked, irritated at the presumption, and vaguely worried at having to leave Mother alone in Kirkwall, even with Varric and Meeran about.

“When you return to Kirkwall, bring my First with you.”

“She'll want to leave the camp?” Bethany asked, surprised. “But she's Dalish, isn't she? She's not going to like it in Kirkwall. The elves have to live in an alienage.”

“She has her reasons,” the Keeper said gently, and a little sadly. “Will you do this for us, _Uth'era_?”

“One additional passenger back to Kirkwall won't hurt,” Hawke decided dismissively. “But once she's at Kirkwall, I'll not mother her further.”

“That is all that I ask. _Ma serannas_.”

'The First' was a young female Keeper-in-progress called Merrill, and her rambling chatter annoyed Hawke instantly. Or at least, the human part of Hawke. Her exclamations of awe and her praise at how _pretty_ the red scale was up close and how _wonderful_ and _graceful_ dragons were when Hawke passed the amulet to her and backed up onto the closest open space to change flattered his draconic part, making it preen. The human part of him felt deeply suspicious that Anders was quite possibly, telling the truth in its entirety. It would just be his damned luck...

VIII.

Asha'bellanar was waiting for him when he dropped his siblings and Merrill back at Kirkwall; she was a distant speck, high above, visible only to a dragon's eyes, circling. Bethany looked surprised when Hawke leaped back up into the air instead of following them through the tunnels, but Hawke could feel a faint tug in the draconic part of his mind, like a sort of summons, and even as he flew up to meet the high dragon, the human part of him deeply resented it.

The witch led him back northwards, into the ridge of mountains behind Kirkwall, until she finally dropped out of the sky, onto a wide ledge outside a cave set into the sheer face of a mountain. Shifting into her human form, she beckoned briefly at him, then stepped into the cave. Annoyed, feeling the tug on his mind again, Hawke obeyed.

The interior of the cave was surprisingly large, larger than the foyer of his family's mansion, and it was lined thickly with books stacked onto shelves. Asha'bellanar had seated herself at a small, round stone table at the centre, and she graciously waved him to a chilled stone chair opposite her.

“Well, child?” she smiled at him, and in that smile was mischief and mockery both. “How are you bearing with your dreams?”

He'd meant to give a brusque answer, but instead ended up saying, tightly, “Apparently, dragons are female.”

Asha'bellanar threw back her mane of bone-white hair and laughed, thundering and malicious in the echoing confines of the cave, and she mimed wiping away a tear as Hawke glowered at her. “Heh. That may be so. Perhaps you may meet a few handsome, enterprising drakes in your journeys?” At Hawke's deepening scowl, the witch smirked. “It is true that natural dragons are the female of their species, child. But you are not a natural dragon; you are _uth'era_ , as am I. I have never felt the urge to mate in my draconic form, nor, I suspect, will you – even if you are capable of doing so. But,” she spread her arms wide, “It may not be impossible. If you intend to try it-”

“No.”

“Pity. Give yourself a hundred years or so, perhaps you might. To alleviate a little of your boredom.” Asha'bellanar drawled. “But I think that it will not work. Still, the process may prove entertaining...?”

Hawke rubbed at his face with his glove as his mind felt like it was breaking just a little around the edges. “ _Never mind_. I'm just... not going to think about this any longer. Ever.” Hopefully.

“The _uth'era_ share only some of a true dragon's instincts and drives,” Asha'bellanar said dryly, more soberly. “We are dreams of dragons – we are not true dragons, though in a way, with our human minds, we can be far more dangerous than the natural ones of our kind. I can only bear human children, with human men, which I have done so when the whim takes me. Let it rest, child. In a century or more, you'll know how truly trivial matters of sex and gender are.” She paused. “If you survive that long.”

“I asked you for aid. I didn't ask for _this_.” Hawke said flatly.

“Your siblings and your mother are safe in Kirkwall, are they not? You have a strong will. Strong enough, I think, to control the dream,” Asha'bellanar shot back. “Very few people are. You'll need all of it in the years to come. And perhaps someday, after your dragon form reaches its prime, you'll find someone else, someone deserving, to teach the dream to.”

“It's irreversible?”

“It is. And even were it not, you owe me service,” the witch reminded him, with a faint smirk. “And you'll be useless to me in your human form. Now and then I will have tasks for you, but for the most part, I'll leave you be.”

“Do you have any 'tasks' for me right now?” Hawke asked, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “Is that why you called me here?”

“I called you here to check on you, child,” Asha'bellanar drawled. “Now that I am satisfied that you are coping, yes, I do have a task for you. There is a Deep Roads entrance southeast of Sundermount. I'll mark it on a map for you, and you'll need to find a map of its tunnels from the Gray Wardens. There is one of them in Kirkwall, I could sense it. Their souls have the most peculiar flavors.”

“A single Gray Warden among thousands of men and women. Easy.” Hawke said, his tone acerbic. “It might be easier and faster to fly to Weisshaupt or Amaranthine. A name or a description would be nice.”

“You have time,” Asha'bellanar said, unsympathetic. “Once you have the maps, mount an expedition. Go downwards, using the Winding Stair, and you'll find an old, dwarven thaig. Within it will be a lyrium carving. Use this.” Asha'bellanar tossed him an amulet, one that looked identical to the amulet around her own neck. “Hold it against the idol until the power transfers. The idol should crumble to dust when you are finished. Then bring the amulet back here, and leave it on the table.”

“It'll take coin to mount an expedition of that size.”

The witch chuckled, and produced a small leather pouch from her belt, tossing it to him. Within it gleamed a generous handful of bright, precious gems of every hue. “And coin you now have. I expect results, Lionel Hawke. Now go.”

“What does the idol-”

“No questions, child,” Asha'bellanar interrupted. “Remember your pledge.”

“I'm pledged to your service. But I'll rather that it wasn't blindly.”

The witch leaned forward, her cheek cupped in one metal-tipped palm. “You have a spine. It'll serve you well. But I am not obliged to answer your questions. The idol is harmful to those who can hear its spellsong, and as it is now, it'll be found, sooner or later. It's best that you bring it here, where it can do no damage. Razikale's harp is not meant for mortal hands.”

IX.

To Hawke's irritation, he found Bethany chatting with Varric and Anders in Varric's suite, in the Hanged Man. He had managed to avoid Anders after hearing the apostate's confession, out of a dim sense of common decency and a nascent kind of guilt – Anders clearly hadn't known that he and the dragon version of him were one and the same. Besides, as pretty as Anders would be if he filled out a little and shaved once in a while, he was a complication that Hawke didn't need. An apostate with good intentions was one that was asking to be caught and dragged off back to the nearest Circle, along with all other apostates in the vicinity.

“Hawke. It's been a while. I was beginning to think that you didn't like me,” Varric drawled.

Hawke glowered at Anders, hoping to get the apostate to leave, but Anders' ears merely turned pink as he averted his eyes, and Bethany was looking at him questioningly. “You were gone for so long. I was getting worried. What happened?”

“It seems,” Hawke said, with a touch of exasperation, as he thought over the sheer scope of Asha'bellanar's demands, “That I'm supposed to find a single Gray Warden in the middle of this bloody city.”

Anders flinched, looking up sharply. “A... a Gray Warden? What for?”

“Apparently he probably has some sort of special map of the Deep Roads. If he doesn't, I'll have to fly to Weisshaupt to get one, I think.” Hawke stilled once the slip left his mouth, and Bethany stared at him, but thankfully, both Anders and Varric seemed to have taken it as sarcasm.

“And what would you need a map of the Deep Roads for?” Anders sounded concerned. “It's not really a very interesting or nice place.”

“Business,” Hawke said curtly, and decided to ignore the apostate, looking over to Varric. “Apparently, there's an old dwarven thaig, that can be reached from a Deep Roads entrance southeast of Sundermount. Do you know anything about that?” Varric stared at him, wide-eyed, until Hawke added, flatly, “What?”

“Do you have any idea what you've just said?”

“I asked a dwarf about a dwarven thaig,” Hawke growled, “And I'm not in the best of moods to hear jokes, or 'funny stories', or any nattering about your ancestors.”

“What _did_ he just say?” Bethany asked, in a more solicitous manner.

“Sunshine, there are some people who would give a fortune for the _location_ of an old thaig, let alone its contents,” Varric said slowly. “I'll like to know how you came by this information, Hawke.”

“You don't have to believe me. If you don't know anything about it, and you aren't aware of the existence of any Gray Wardens in Kirkwall, then I don't have any further business with you.” Hawke rose from the table.

“Sit down, sit down,” Varric said reasonably. “Hawke, an expedition into the Deep Roads needs planning. Supplies. Guards and scouts. You can't just barge in there and hope to find a thaig.”

“Lots of darkspawn,” Anders supplied, looking a little pale, eyes fixed on his hands on the table.

“I'm aware of the risks. There's something that I need to get from the thaig.”

“Which is...?” Varric prompted, but at Hawke's set jaw, he raised his hands. “All right. Just asking. And have I ever said that I _love_ your attitude to life and to its little impossibilities? Find the map, and I'll talk my brother into arranging an expedition, we'll raise funds somehow, and we can all go together and split the proceeds.”

“I have funds.” Hawke had pocketed some of the gems, but he passed the rest of the pouch over to Varric.

Bethany gasped. “Did she...?” At Hawke's warning glance, however, Bethany subsided quickly, despite Varric's raised eyebrows.

“You, are full of surprises, my friend,” Varric said, with a low whistle, once he looked at the contents of the pouch. “These are easily worth fifty sovereigns, by my measure. I'll talk to my brother immediately.”

“The Deep Roads!” Bethany said, excited. “Oh! Wait till I tell Carver.”

“Trust me, there is absolutely nothing about it to get excited about,” Anders muttered, as Hawke and Bethany rose from the table. “Um. Could I speak to you for a moment? Lionel?”

“What is it?” Hawke demanded curtly, frowning at Anders, and the apostate's cheeks flushed with spots of color. Maker, but it _was_ a pity. If Anders wasn't an apostate with an idiot kitten's conception of 'lying low'...

“Uh. Nothing,” Anders mumbled. “Carry on then.”

“He's strange,” Hawke told Bethany later, on their way back to Hightown. “Don't keep his company.”

“He's funny,” Bethany retorted, and at Hawke's deepening frown, snickered. “He's not interested in me at all, so don't give me that. He likes _you_. It's obvious. You mean you didn't notice?”

Hawke took a deep breath, then he exhaled slowly. “I'm trying not to encourage him.”

“I don't see what's the problem. He's nice, he's good looking-” Hawke's fists twitched, the way they tended to whenever Bethany talked about men whom she found attractive, and she laughed at him. “No. Seriously.”

Hawke tried very hard not to think about the part of Anders' confession that had involved the apostate wanting to be bent over flat services, and failed. Anders looked like the noisy sort, the type who'd beg and plead and squeal... Deliberately, he pinched at the bridge of his nose, stifling a sigh. “He's also the sort who'll get caught by templars eventually.”

“Then he'll just escape. He's done it before. Escape from a Circle, that is.” Bethany said blithely. “You've never had problems with flings before.”

“This isn't something that I want to discuss with you.”

“'This isn't something that I want to discuss with you',” Bethany mimicked him, and smirked at his scowl. “You know, you haven't just told me outright that you're not interested in him.”

“Does that need to be said?”

“Didn't you save him from some templars?” Bethany grinned. “He came over personally afterwards to the mansion while you were out to thank me.”

“The dragon felt like it,” Hawke corrected, “And I got rid of them because _you_ like to walk around the Wounded Coast. Also,” he added, when Bethany opened her mouth, “Both you and Carver are not coming with me to the Deep Roads.”

“What?” Bethany yelped. “ _Why_?”

“Because it'll be dangerous. Because you'll be exposed to the darkspawn taint, and you've seen for yourselves what happened to Wesley. And I'll need the both of you here to look after Mother,” Hawke concluded, as patiently as he could. “The Red Iron can't be everywhere, and we haven't managed to get rid of Jayson yet.”

“Meeran said that we're close to locating Jayson,” Bethany disagreed, “And it'll take time to organise the expedition. If we can get rid of him before the Deep Roads, you'll take us both?”

“I _said_ that you're both not going. My mind's made up.”

“We'll see about that.”

X.

As Hawke had thought, trying to find one man in a city when he didn't even have a name or a description was nigh impossible, though Varric had heard rumors that the Warden was Fereldan, and likely living amidst the refugees, the city was choked so full of refugees in Darktown and Lowtown that searching out one of them would be difficult. Admittedly, it kept Carver and Bethany out of trouble – the twins were convinced that Hawke would let them go to the Deep Roads if _they_ found the Warden and the map, and nosing around the Fereldan refugees was a fairly safe endeavor.

The mansion was fully habitable again, with the help of the gems he had kept, though they couldn't afford servants, Mother seemed to enjoy being in the house of her childhood. Hawke was seated at the fireplace, browsing through a book that he had found in the marketplace about 'Razikale' with a sense of increasing boredom, when he heard someone knocking at the main door.

It was Anders, and the apostate had a hunted expression. “Hawke. Are you, ah, free to talk?”

“It depends on what you want to talk to me about.”

“Off the street?” Anders asked, with a note of pleading in his voice, and Hawke let out a sigh, nodding his head and stepping aside, keeping a tight hold on himself. “Are you alone?”

“Mother's out at the market with the twins, and they aren't expected back for a few hours.” Hawke folded his arms once he closed the door. “Well?”

Anders took a deep breath. “I have the map. Of the Deep Roads.”

Hawke stared at him for a long, unblinking moment. “ _You're_ a Warden?”

“There were circumstances, and I didn't _want_ to be one. That's why I'm here, rather than slugging it out in Ferelden alongside the Warden-Commander.” Anders carded his hand anxiously through his hair. “There was a... situation in the Calenhad Circle. During it, I escaped, while the templars were occupied. The Warden-Commander cleared it up, though, and the templars went around hunting down all of us who had escaped.”

“And?”

“And I got arrested in Denerim. Thankfully, the Warden-Commander happened to be close at hand, and he has no love for templars. But he also is a bloody stickler for rules, so he gave me a choice. Join up with the Wardens, or go back with the templars.” Anders groaned, rubbing at his eyes. “Some days I think I chose wrongly. You get all these nightmares... I've never been able to sleep properly again. After the Joining, I, ah, borrowed a map of the Deep Roads, and left. I'm not one for wars or Archdemons. Especially coupled with all that political uncertainty. It's a powder keg waiting to go off.”

Anders didn't sound like he was lying, although his story seemed highly improbable. Still, it wasn't as though Hawke was a stranger to improbability. “What do you want for the map?”

The apostate grinned, a little mischievously, and just as Hawke thought that he was just about to be propositioned, or something equally and deplorably regrettable, Anders sighed abruptly. “I've received word from a contact in the Calenhad Circle that the templars are coming for me. Since I'm no longer with the Wardens. And they still have my phylactery – that's what they use to track down mages. It'll be a vial, or a philtre of blood. Bring that to me, and I'll give you my map.”

On one hand, Hawke was somewhat relieved that Anders hadn't asked for sexual favors. On the other hand...“Take on the templars and find a vial of blood?” Hawke asked acidly, “ _So_ simple.”

“Your sister's pet is perfectly capable of doing it by itself,” Anders pointed out. “I can leave the city for a while, stay somewhere outside it but close. Then you just have to get it to stay close and wait. The templars won't waste time; it'll be a group of them, probably, coming here via ship. Varric could get someone to watch the port and the Gallows.”

“Ferelden is in the middle of a Blight. Don't the templars have better concerns than chasing a single apostate across the sea?”

Anders shrugged. “What can I say? They have a special spot in their hearts for me. I may have, ah, escaped seven times. Before. That sort of thing tends to endear you to Knight-Commanders.”

“What's to stop me from just taking the map from you?”

“You don't know where I've hidden it. Also,” Anders added, with a quick smile, “You don't strike me as that sort of person.”

Hawke sighed, his bluff called. “Fine. The Dalish owe me a favor. You can probably stay in their camp, I'll ask the Keeper about it. The dragon should be able to hide on Sundermount and wait. I'll... speak to Bethany.” He didn't like deception, however necessary. As much as he knew that it was not the same, the ability to shapeshift was commonly seen as an apostate ability, and Hawke had no desire to be hunted by templars. His family had agreed that keeping the secret between themselves was for the best. If anything, they'd always have the element of surprise.

“I'll be very grateful,” Anders' smile grew bolder, his eyes half-lidded with a touch of heat – the man was _flirting_ with him, Hawke realized, somewhat belatedly.

“You should be,” Hawke retorted, deciding to nip matters quickly in the bud. “Templars aren't the sort of trouble that I can usually afford. I'll send word to you when I've arranged matters with the Dalish.”

“All right,” Anders said, visibly disappointed. “I'll wait.”

XI.

The templars arrived on the back of a stiff wind, faster than Hawke had expected, and they were caught somewhat flatfooted – templars were already beginning to search Darktown. This meant collecting Anders on short notice, instructing his wayward siblings to keep a low profile at home, and heading quickly for Sundermount, hoping to outpace the templars.

“Where's the scaly version of you?” Anders asked, barely out of breath as he managed, surprisingly, to keep up with Hawke. The Planasene forest sloped upwards as they closed on Sundermount, winding past the Bone Pits, and the terrain was difficult and rocky.

“It'll catch up,” Hawke said dismissively.

“I never thought that I'd say this,” Anders never seemed to shut up even at the best of times, “But it's far more good-natured than most people I know. And it's a dragon.”

Hawke arched an eyebrow. “Didn't it try to eat you when it first saw you?”

“That was a misunderstanding. Perfectly normal for a dragon,” Anders said blandly. “I've had that reaction from people as well. I mean, trying to kill me on sight. Not trying to eat me. I hope.”

“Don't you ever shut up?”

Impending capture and/or death seemed to make Anders oddly chipper. “Only when my mouth is occupied.” And inappropriately flirtatious.

“I could break your jaw,” Hawke suggested sourly, sweating in his armor and wired tight on adrenaline. They were making too much noise, which could work in their favor, if they stumbled first on elvhen patrols rather than templar search parties.

“Healer, remember?”

“Just be quiet. I can't hear myself think, let alone listen for templars.”

“Well,” Anders said helpfully, “Something sounds like incoming horsemen.”

Blast. “Keep going. If you go straight from here, you'll reach the Dalish encampment. Tell them that you're there because of _uth'era_ and they'll let you in.”

“Is that a pass word or something? Elvhen for 'biscuit', maybe?” Anders quipped, folding his arms. “I'm not going to leave you here to face the templars alone. I could signal the other Lionel with a fireball. Or something.”

“No signalling. And don't worry about me,” Hawke snapped impatiently. “Just go!”

“But-”

“Now!”

Instead of leaving, Anders instead stepped closer, and to his shock, pressed a hard, rough kiss on his mouth. “For luck,” Anders said, a little thickly, without meeting his eyes, and broke into a run.

Astonished, his lips still tingling, Hawke stared after Anders until the trees hid the fleeing apostate from view, then he took a deep breath and pushed himself into the change. He didn't have time to think, not now. Trees snapped and groaned as he shouldered them roughly aside, clawing his way up and into the air, unable to keep his draconic mind from letting out a roar of challenge. Turning dragon so quickly was ill advised, but he was desperate, and it turned out that Anders had very good ears after all – a posse of five templars were indeed heading their way on a canter, and they had lances and spears.

The chargers were trained; in stead of panicking when he dove close, they obeyed their masters' handling, even with their ears drawn back against their skulls, snorting and stamping in their anxiety. Hawke spat a fireball at the closest charger, only for the templar on its back to push his knees into his steed's flanks, and it leaped safely out of range. Annoyed, Hawke circled higher, trying to think, fighting against the dragon's instinct to swoop down and pounce. The forest made it difficult to perform the same tactics as he had on the Coast – if he clipped his wings, or became landbound, the chargers would prove very challenging. He'd have to drive them out to open ground.

Hoping that he wouldn't inadvertently cause some sort of major forest fire, Hawke continued to spit fireballs at the templars, trying to herd them outwards. He managed to get lucky – one fireball hit a charger head on, knocking it off its feet and setting the poor beast on fire; it screamed and rolled heavily, crushing its hapless rider under its bulk.

Instead of retreating, as he hoped, the templars pushed on into the forest, trying to outdistance him to the denser thickets. Hawke let out a frustrated roar, circling vainly overhead. He couldn't see Anders any longer, at least, and the shine of the templars' silver armor made them obvious. Keeping a tight grip on the dragon's anger, Hawke forced himself to make one last circle before ostensibly flying away, in the direction of the Wounded Coast, but in reality circling higher and higher, until he was out of sight of the naked human eye, before winging back.

The templars had slowed to a walk, and they were milling around, as though in consultation. Hawke hoped that they wouldn't do the logical thing – make camp – they didn't look as though they had the proper supplies, anyway. After an interminable amount of time, during which Hawke was beginning to feel irritable and tired, the templars did the _annoying_ thing. One broke away from the pack, picking his way back to Kirkwall, possibly to get reinforcements. The others forged on, probably still tracking Anders.

In dismay, Hawke hesitated. The templars going for Anders numbered three, now, and if Anders had managed to reach the encampment, Hawke was fairly sure that the Dalish could at least delay them. If he hadn't, it wasn't as though Hawke could land in the thick forest. And if the lone templar made it back to Kirkwall...

Making up his mind, Hawke winged his way westwards, following the templar messenger as he picked his way out of the forest, urging his weary horse into a canter once the forest edged out into rocky grasslands. He managed only a brief scream as Hawke dropped out of the sky, slamming his weight into horse and rider, killing them both. Hungry and tired, the dragon wanted to feed, but Hawke forced them both back up into the air, winging back towards Sundermount, hoping that he hadn't lost too much time.

The templars had already ridden out of the forest onto the rocky plateau that led to the camp, and although carefully hidden, Hawke's draconic eye could pick out the archers at the ready, lining the slopes and the camp. He allowed the templars to ride out further from the forest before diving down, aiming for the last rider.

The rider's horse noticed him, somehow – the animal shrieked and lunged forward, and Hawke landed heavily on the stone instead with a snarl of frustration. He breathed a plume of flame before him, but the horses were already rounding out of range, circling around tightly to face him, then to Hawke's surprise, the templars charged him as one, lances at the ready.

Belatedly, he tried to force the dragon up into the air, but it fought him, tired and hungry and furious, standing its ground, breathing a gout of flame at its attackers, who quickly split up, their horses snorting and whinnying; Hawke lunged, his jaws snapping shut over the neck of the first horse, deftly breaking it, but the horse's rider had already quickly dismounted in a fluid move, and with a a war-cry, thrust his spear forward. Hawke twisted, and the spear skittered over hardened scale instead of reaching his neck. Furious, the dragon snapped its jaws forward, snake-quick, and tore the head off the templar's shoulders.

He turned to face the others, only to bellow in pain and outrage as a charger thundered forward, already too close to avoid, the templar driving a lance deep into his ribs using the weight of his horse. Roaring, Hawke lashed out, but the templar had spurred his horse out of range, and even as Hawke tried to take control again, to fly, or to check on the last templar, another impact slammed into his opposite flank, this time hard enough for the shaft of the lance to snap off, knocking him heavily off balance, and the dragon's bellow of anger became a scream of pain.

The templars drew their blades, urging their horses around, sensing victory, even as Hawke finally managed to wrench control over the dragon's pain and shock, forcing it up into a brief hop of flight, only to crash, dizzy and weak, blood filling punctured lungs, in a deep furrow only metres from the Dalish encampment. Grimly, Hawke forced his body up onto its clawed feet, turning to face the templars one last time as they charged again, then he blinked as the first templar abruptly snapped still, falling off his charger, crossbow bolts festooning his armor. The second tried to turn, and managed a last, shouted curse before bolts punched through his breastplate, and the horse trotted in frightened circle, whinnying at the dead weight on its back.

“ _Atisha, Uth'era, atisha!_ ” The Keeper was at his side as he moaned, clawed legs no longer able to hold his weight, weakening fast. “Pol, Thiaron, Iev, here! Lenalen, Val, Sethen, the other flank. _Shemlen_ healer, be ready. Now, now!”

Hawke screamed when the elves pulled the lances from him, and only by exerting all of his control and will could he keep the dragon form from lashing out in its pain. Healing magic poured into him, knitting flesh, bone and punctured organs, and at the end of it all, he lay on his side, breathing shallowly, still dizzy and weak. The Keeper was petting the arch of his jaw, soothingly, like she would a wounded animal, murmuring in her tongue, and Anders was stroking his muzzle, looking decidedly pale.

“Maker, I thought for a moment... Bethany would never have forgiven me,” Anders said weakly. “You're not out of danger yet, I think. There was too much internal bleeding. I'll... I'll have to get Bethany, I'll take one of the horses and get to Kirkwall tomorrow. And Lionel, the human Lionel,” he said, turning to the Keeper. “He's still on the slope, somewhere.”

The Keeper stared at Anders, puzzled. “ _Uth'era_ is here.”

Anders threw up his hands. “Yes, the _dragon_ is here! I meant the other Lionel. The _shemlen_ version.”

“He is here,” the Keeper repeated. “ _Uth'era_ , the dragon must rest. Can you change back?”

Wearily, Hawke pushed himself into the change with the last of his strength, too tired and too weak to remember what the original problem he had with secrecies and dual identities were, and he dimly heard Anders gasp out aloud before losing consciousness.

XII.

He woke up disoriented, ravenous, and partially convinced that he shouldn't be breathing, rolling over and dry-heaving as his empty stomach tried to claw its way out of his throat. The dragon in his mind panicked at the nausea, trying to take over, but Hawke grit his teeth and hung on until it subsided. His human form was whole, at least, and he seemed to be lying on a bed of homespun fabric and thick gray fur, within a strange wooden room. His armor was stacked in a corner, and he had been stripped down to his breeches.

As he ran his hand through sweat-soaked hair, frowning, Hawke glanced up as the narrow door to his right opened. Anders stepped in, a bowl of stew in his hands, and outside, behind him, was the Dalish encampment. This was one of the aravels, then.

Anders had to help him sit up, but he refused any further aid, willing his shaking fingers to calm down as he carefully balanced the bowl in his lap and ate, pacing himself, nausea already forgotten. As the edge of hunger ebbed, the dragon calmed down further, purring in contentment, and he breathed out with a harsh gasp of relief, startling the apostate into peering at him.

“Are you feeling all right?”

“I'm fine,” Hawke said curtly, between mouthfuls of stew, too hungry even to register what he was shoveling into his mouth, and Anders sat down gingerly beside him, cross-legged, hands clasped in his lap, watching until Hawke finished the bowl of stew and pushed it away.

“Do you want any more?”

“No.” Hawke hadn't been particularly sure what had been in the stew, but he was no longer hungry enough to be incurious. “Did you find your phylactery?”

“I did. I've destroyed it. The Dalish led the horses away somewhere and disposed of the rest of the evidence... I don't think the templars will know to come this far, the trail will go cold for them here. Thank you.”

“Where's the map?”

“It's in my clinic, under a floorboard. I'll give it to you once we return to Kirkwall.” Anders stared down at his hands. “You nearly died.”

Hawke snorted. “Occupational hazard. And I wouldn't even have been hurt if...” if the dragon had _listened_. “Never mind.”

“It's a bit late for secrets, isn't it?” Anders' smile was tentative. “I had no idea that you were a mage. I mean, the Warden-Commander is a mage, and he wears armor, but I thought that he was unique. I guess it runs in the family.”

Hawke had never met or spoken to Daylen Amell before, and he wasn't particularly sure if he ever wanted to, at this rate. “I'm not a mage.”

“People without magic can't shapeshift,” Anders pointed out mildly. “Andraste's knickers, even shapeshifting itself is rare, apparently exclusive to the witches in the-”

“I made a bargain with the witch of the wilds, the one the elves call Asha'bellanar, to save my family from the Blight. Now I'm bound to her service,” Hawke interrupted, tiring of the lecture. “I'm no mage. But I recognise that the Chantry won't think that there's a distinction.”

“That thing in the Deep Roads – she wants it?” At Hawke's nod, Anders sighed. “Your trick won't serve you well in the Deep Roads. Your dragon form would be too big for most of the tunnels. You'd get stuck. And then you'll just get yourself killed.”

“That's none of your concern.”

“You can be the _most_ -” Anders took in a deep breath, cutting himself off. “You need rest. The Keeper said that you could stay here until you've recovered.”

“I don't have the time.” Hawke tried to get up, only to stumble heavily as his legs refused to listen to him. Anders caught him quickly, then pressed him back down on the bed, holding him there with his weight until Hawke stopped squirming and growling.

“You push yourself too hard,” Anders said soberly.

Hawke scowled at the apostate, and at the dark rings under Anders' eyes, the pale cast to his cheeks. “Speak for yourself. Have you slept? How long have I been out?”

Anders ignored the first question. “You've been unconscious for a couple of days. I sent word to your family. Your brother came by, but your sister had to stay back in the mansion. It seems that the templars are on a warpath.”

“Looking for you?”

Anders tried a smile, but couldn't hold it. “Well, the templars who _did_ come looking for me disappeared. So it's not inconceivable that the Knight-Commander Meredith is a trifle upset. But they don't have my phylactery any longer, which is a major bonus. Once you're well enough to walk, things should have calmed down enough for me to go back into hiding.”

“You should leave Kirkwall. Head northwards, until you reach Rivain. Mages are free there.” Hawke said soberly. “If I were you-”

“You're not me. The Fereldan refugees have no recourse to any sort of medical aid; if I were to leave... Andraste knows what would happen, even the simplest procedures would have to be done by untrained hands. People would die from birth complications, colds, worse. I have to stay for a while. At least until the families with nothing manage to pick themselves up again.” Anders shook his head slowly. “I wish that I were you,” he added, somewhat more lightly. “You could _fly_ to Rivain and back, within a week.”

“You don't want this,” Hawke disagreed. “The dragon... it's not entirely another mind, sharing mine, but it's close. It's all pure impulse, all violence and greed and want. I can't always hold it back. It nearly got me killed, just now, when it faced the templars head on instead of taking flight.”

“Well...”

“Also,” Hawke reminded Anders dryly, “If Bethany hadn't stopped me, the first time we met, I probably would have ended up killing you. It gets harder to control when it's hungry and tired.”

“That's a sobering thought.” Anders was staring back down at his own hands again, and they shared an oddly companionable silence, punctuated only by the muffled sounds of life outside and around them, in the Dalish encampment. Hawke was beginning to doze off again when Anders said, in a small voice, “About that kiss.”

“What about it?” Hawke asked, somewhat crossly, stilling the urge to pull a pillow over his head.

“No 'don't do that again', or 'you're lucky that I was too busy to punch you in the face'?” Anders mimicked his tone, feigning a gruff voice.

Hawke rolled his eyes and snorted. “Are you about to ask me to bend you over a flat surface? Because I don't think that I can manage that right now.”

Anders blinked at him for a long moment, then he flushed a bright red as he mentally referenced the context. “You _could_ have told me that you were also the dragon, you know. Earlier. That is. Rather than allowing me to make an utter fool of myself.”

“It had to remain a secret for obvious reasons.”

“I'm hardly about to run up to the closest templar to denounce you, am I?” Anders looked hurt, for want of a better word, and even as Hawke's conscience stirred a little, he stood firm.

“I don't trust anyone outside of my family.”

“Not even Aveline?”

Hawke hesitated. “Aveline is a... special case.”

“So,” Anders exhaled, and seemed to give that up as a bad job, “Not to belabor the point, but since you raised it, about flat surfaces and bending-”

Hawke groaned. “Not now, Anders.”

“But not never?”

“It's not,” Hawke grit out, unable to lie, “Entirely out of the question.”

Anders perked up. “Really?”

“You're...” Hawke was feeling mellow and sleepy and full, and as such, was a tad more generous than usual. “Useful.”

“And you're probably utterly incapable of flattering someone,” Anders said, though he smiled warmly. “I've never had someone nearly kill himself trying to keep templars from getting to me before. No one's ever thought that I was worth the trouble.”

“I hope you enjoyed that, because I'm not doing that again,” Hawke said, if a little half-heartedly. The draconic part of him, he realized belatedly, was already very fond of Anders; all impulse and instinct, it had instantly liked the _nice_ , gentle human who had healed it twice, and this sentiment seemed to have thoroughly leaked all over the rational part of his mind. “Also, I needed your map.”

“Well then,” Anders said, reaching down to squeeze his hand briefly, “My maps, and I, are yours.”

“You'll regret that,” Hawke noted dryly, ignoring the innuendo. “I might decide that we need a healer to come along into the Deep Roads.”

“You've saved me twice now, and helped me destroy my phylactery,” Anders observed solemnly. “If you want me to go to the Deep Roads with you, I will go. And if you want anything else...”

“I did recall you saying something about being 'very grateful',” Hawke said, unable to help a faint curl to his mouth at the hopeful edge to Anders' voice, the dragon purring contentedly in his mind.

Anders looked startled. “Now?”

“You're the medical expert.”

“I'm afraid,” Anders confessed, as he settled carefully between Hawke's thighs, as though expecting to be pushed out of the nest of pillows and blankets at any moment, “That my professionalism is currently being sorely tried.”

Later, Hawke would blame the dragon in his mind as he smiled and reached forward to tug Anders into an ungainly sprawl over him, managing a slanting, brushing kiss as they struggled with Anders' coat and clasps, then another, before Anders splayed his long fingers over Hawke's cheeks and turned the kiss sweetly, intimately gentle.

XIII.

“It's people like you who'd rule the world, Hawke.” Varric breathed, when Hawke tossed the map to him in the dwarf's suite in the Hanged Man. “Once I start thinking that you've finally set yourself something impossible to accomplish, you just kick my expectations in the face.”

Hawke snorted, though he allowed himself to be flattered into sitting down and accepting a pint of horrific beer. “How soon before we're ready?”

“A week, tops.” Varric studied the map avidly. “I suggest that you shore up all your personal business before then.”

“I don't want my siblings to come along,” Hawke drummed his fingers on the table. “Any suggestions?”

“You could tie them up and leave them at home.” Varric said, facetiously. “Sailor's knots.”

“Serious suggestions.”

“Hawke, you've produced fifty sovereigns worth of gems out of nowhere, the location of an old thaig, _and_ a Warden's map, and you don't know how to keep your younger brother and sister out of trouble?” At Hawke's glower, Varric smirked. “All right. I'll think of something, leave it with me. What about Aveline?”

“She's busy with the guard. I wouldn't put it beyond those two to try and follow us.”

“Meeran?”

“Meeran doesn't like 'babysitting'. And I wouldn't trust _him_ to keep them out of trouble.” If anything, Meeran could only be absolutely trusted to _get_ the twins into trouble. He and the Red Iron would probably try their damnedest to get them out of it again, of course – the Red Iron tried to leave no one behind – but Hawke didn't want to risk it.

“Daisy and Blondie?”

“They're coming with us.” The more mages, the better, for the dark places in the world. Besides, although the Deep Roads were likely to be emptier now that the Blight had been going on for so long, they'd still need Anders' Warden senses, and Merrill's sharp eyes and ears.

“Doesn't leave a lot of options. But I'll think about it.” Varric said thoughtfully, then he smirked again. “ _So_. You and Blondie.”

“What?”

“He's moved in with you already, I hear.” Varric said, self-satisfied, an irritatingly _knowing_ look in his eyes.

“He's using my cellar as his clinic until the templars stop scouring Darktown, yes.”

“And?”

“And if it'll stop you from asking me increasingly inane questions,” Hawke said, exasperated, “Yes, he is a fairly proficient lover. Satisfied?”

Varric raised both his palms. “Whoah. I wasn't asking for _that_ much detail.” Hawke glared at him while he drained his mug. “There's another thing,” the dwarf added, a little hastily. “You've heard about Kirkwall's dragon infestation?”

“The ones that supposedly only eat templars?” Hawke asked dryly.

“The templars have put out a reward on the dragons. Big reward. Don't roll your eyes, Hawke. You have a penchant for wearing shiny, silver armor as well. Could be that one day you'd be walking around in the Wounded Coast and then the sky'll rain angry, hungry flame-breathing lizards.”

Hawke snorted, keeping his expression neutral. “Somehow, I doubt that very much. And I'm not interested in chasing dragons about. They're irrelevant to my concerns.”

“I love how you can say that and mean it,” Varric said ruefully. “'Dragons are irrelevant to my concerns.'”

“Stop mimicking me,” Hawke scowled. “I'll tolerate it from my sister, but from anyone else, it just makes my fists itch.”

Varric shook his head sadly. “Someday, I swear, you'll develop a sense of humor, and then the world will truly tremble. Anyway. We're going to have to go past Sundermount to the Deep Roads entrance, you know. It's past 'dragon territory'.”

“If the dragons come,” Hawke shrugged, “They'll die.”

Varric stared at him for a long moment, then he chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “Maker's bloody balls. I'll actually put money on you if that throw-down happens. Anyway, Bartrand's nearly done hand-picking the guards and scouts. We've already arranged all the supplies. So we've got a week to figure out a way to keep your siblings from sneaking along. Can't be hard.”

“You'll be surprised.”

“Don't look so dour all the time, your face will set your frown in stone.” Varric gestured at one of the waitresses, who soon brought over another round of beer. “Let's drink. To our fortune, to the future, and to the Deep Roads.”

“To the future,” Hawke echoed, and raised his mug in a toast.

side story: postscript: “ten years, then a hundred”: a dragon's hoard

The Gray Host dug deep, fortifying a camp on the plateau, high ground, Hawke thought, watching the endless mass of the armies of the Divine, lining the edge of the plains on the horizon, come in their vast numbers and their neat and orderly ranks, all the way into the Free Marches to try and kill a God.

“Concerned?” Asha'bellanar asked, striding beside him, hips swaying, the same, unchanging, vicious curl to her full lips.

“Lord Razikale does not seem to be concerned,” Hawke shrugged, jerking his head at the rich, red tent that sat in the centre of the plateau. “Should I be?”

The Lord of Mystery wore a whimsical, female form today, elvhen, sleek and voluptuous, dressed in a mockery of silver armor that only accentuated ample curves, yet no one dared draw close, or let their eyes wander, as He perused a large map of the plains, sensuous lips pursed in deep contemplation. Even from this distance, Hawke could feel the rich, seething aura of arcane energy that Razikale emanated, of the oldest, purest magic, and His tent needed no lantern; the table and the tent itself glowed with a warm, silvery light, that changed color based on His whim.

“Few matters concern an Old God. Even one that has not fully awakened. We need to find Urthemiel's host, and quickly. Divine Alicia is wise beyond her years for a mortal, and her generals are canny.”

“Concerned?” Hawke shot back, unable to help a brief, mocking note.

“We hold a good, strategic position. And tomorrow, perhaps you and I could venture forth before the Host and sow a little havoc,” Asha'bellanar shrugged gracefully. “How say you?”

“I say that those ballistae look as though they could punch a very unlucky High Dragon out of the air, and one or two more would make ill difference,” Hawke pointed out acerbically. “Us falling to an untimely and ignoble death should do wonders for morale and our strategic position.”

Asha'bellanar smirked at him. “You're always in such a foul mood before a battle, Hawke. The Paladin of the Gray Host, sulking and sullen on the onset of history.”

“History trudges on, with or without our bloody battles,” Hawke had long grown too used to Asha'bellanar's teasing; he no longer even felt a hint of irritation. “Were it not for Lord Razikale, I'll have sooner washed my hands of this entire sorry affair. I know not why He wants to hold the Marches. We'd be safer wearing the storm in Tevinter.”

“Better the enemy that you know,” Asha'bellanar disagreed, as they wound their way towards their tents; smaller, yet no less luxurious affairs, pitched at the back of the fortified camp. “Tevinter's Divine and its Archon pledge allegiance, yet you see no hair nor hide of their armies here. Lord Razikale has His reasons.”

“Being a strange and unsubstantiated belief that Urthemiel's host is hiding eastwards of Starkhaven.” Hawke shook his head slowly. “I am bound to Razikale because of the dragon's dream, but I have my doubts about allowing an old dragon to lead an army and seek to rule over the Marches. Mystery knows little of mundane governance, nor should it.” It was a strange thing to contemplate; after centuries of division and strife, the Circle and the Chantry had finally set aside their prejudices and united behind a common goal. They feared the full awakening of an Old God.

“Razikale is a God,” Asha'bellanar reminded him. “He knows more of this world than you think. Rest and chase your plaything around your tent for a while. Tomorrow we take flight with the dawn.”

“He's _not_ a plaything. Bitch,” Hawke muttered, even as Asha'bellanar's mocking laughter followed him as he pushed past the flaps into his tent.

From the writing desk, Anders looked up, and smiled warmly, getting to his feet, neat and tidy and clean-shaven, dressed in specially tailored robes. “You're back. It's early.”

Hawke felt his irritation and tension ease a little, as he strode forward to claim a brief, hard kiss, curling his gloved fingers into Anders' fine, honey-gold hair. “Asha'bellanar decided that I should rest before my black mood incites the men to suicide.”

“The men are used to your moods, my love,” Anders chuckled, though he ran his thumbs playfully over the crow's feet etched into the edges of Hawke's eyes. “But a smile now and then might keep them from diving out of your path in terror on the eve of a skirmish.”

Hawke snorted, looking down at Anders' spidery handwriting, holding the mage possessively close. He'd found Anders' current incarnation in a supply post in the Anderfels when he had been quietly following up a lead on Urthemiel's position, a couple of years ago, and had almost been convinced that it had been a trap; this incarnation was the closest yet to the very first that he had encountered, an age and more away on the Wounded Coast within sight of Kirkwall. Many humans were born with old souls, for whom death was only a brief respite from the Wheel. Hawke had been lucky.

He'd tried this time, to call Anders by his current birth name, but habit reverted all too quickly, and the mage never seemed to mind. Besides, this far east of the Anderfels, all of his race shared the same moniker, in any case; Anders people were rare in the Marches. “What are you doing?”

“Writing down formulas to the potions that I still remember how to concoct. Since I'm not allowed out of this tent.” There was a faint hint of rebuke in Anders' tone, but Hawke ignored it. “If you could so kindly pass my notes to the quartermaster?”

“I will.” Hawke drew Anders into another, slower kiss, exploring his mouth unhurriedly until the mage finally relaxed against him, hands clutching urgently at his shoulders.

“I could help,” Anders said persuasively, as Hawke pulled them both towards the thick furs and quilts. “I can heal. You'll need all the hands you can get, during the battle. I won't be in danger, I'll be in the infirmary, away from the front lines.”

The dragon growled within him, entwined for so long with the human part of him that they shared the same sentiments. “No. We've healers enough.”

“You don't mean that,” Anders retorted, though he was pliant as Hawke sat on the furs and pulled his lover onto his lap, and he flushed a little as he braced his hands on Hawke's shoulders, rubbing his pert rump deliciously against the hard curve of Hawke's growing arousal. “You don't know what might happen tomorrow. One more healer won't hurt. And it'll spare people for the front lines.”

“No.”

Anders let out a deep sigh, exasperated, though he turned up his chin to bare his throat to Hawke's teeth and tongue. “You're all dragon, all right. Though I used to think that dragons only hoarded gold and silver.”

“You're far better than mere coin or trinkets,” Hawke said quietly, carefully light, even as he pulled off his gauntlets, discarding them to the side. Anders was dangerous on the cusp of battle as well, rebellious and headstrong; it was the healer's instincts within him, that chafed being put away when there were people who needed him.

“Yes,” Anders agreed, a little acidly, “I'm softer to lie on and can probably be used as emergency rations. Oh, don't look at me like that, love,” he exhaled, with a quick, brushing kiss over Hawke's forehead. “I'm sorry that I said that. But you can't just treat me like a trinket forever. I want-”

“We'll talk. After the battle.”

“I've heard that before,” Anders observed, sounding resigned, though he allowed Hawke to roll on top of him and push his robes up past his knees, smirking seductively when Hawke stroked under his smalls and found him already wet and ready. “I thought that we could save some time.”

Hawke growled, dragon and human both, watching as Anders shivered and licked his lips at the sound, and didn't wait to remove the rest of his clothes, only enough to free himself from his breeches, and the first time of the night was always rough, always quick. It was the second that was slow and deliberate, the second that Anders saved his squeals and pretty cries and pleas for, and Hawke was careful to draw it out until he could feel time push well past midnight.

Spent, naked limbs entwined, Hawke was drifting off when Anders murmured, against his neck, “If-”

“If you run,” Hawke stroked a splayed palm lazily down his lover's sweaty flank, “I'll find you.” Sometimes the incarnations tried it, but they could usually be persuaded to stop; one way or the other. Dragons were possessive, and ruthless where necessary.

“That's not what I was going to ask,” Anders said, though his tone was flat. “But thank you for the clarification.”

Hawke and the dragon struggled with patience. “Then what did you want to know?”

Anders leaned back, watching him soberly with dark, inscrutable eyes, then he sighed and snuggled close again. “Never mind. You're impossible before a battle. Sleep. Or you'll be _really_ grumpy tomorrow.”

Hawke was, in fact, _extremely_ grumpy come the dawn, from a lack of sleep and a nagging worry about Anders' words, but Anders had laughed in his face and tumbled him mercilessly off the quilts when he'd tried to curl up again, and in the end, Hawke had washed up peremptorily, dressed, and trudged out into the wan sunlight, yawning and combing his fingers through his hair. Lord Razikale wore his favorite form today, a seven-foot-tall, hulking body in gleaming armor of a purple so dark that it was almost black, accentuated with rich white sashes across his thick neck and over his waist, his face a primitive blend of human and qunari features, arcing black horns crossed with red ribbons twisting up from his thick mane of tawny hair. Asha'bellanar stood beside him, and she inclined her head with a mocking smile as he approached them.

“When I told you to chase your plaything around your tent I didn't think that you'd play with him all _night_. If you fall asleep in the air and drop to your death, you'll have only yourself to blame.”

Hawke scowled at her. “I'll be fine.” His dragon form was well rested; he had been careful with that over this week. He inclined his head respectfully at his Lord. “Majesty.”

“ _Andaran atish'an_ , Setheneran.” Razikale nodded at him. Elves, or 'the People', as Razikale and Asha'bellanar called them, were Razikale's favorites of all the races in Thedas. It was rather odd in hindsight how he had taught the dreams of fire only to humans.

“I was hoping that you'll be able to talk Asha'bellanar out of her sudden insanity,” Hawke said, with a jerk of his chin at the distant lines of the army. “Two High Dragons will not make much of a dent on _that_.”

“I'll ride with the Host.” Razikale smiled faintly, his eyes a whirling shade of purple that Hawke dared not hold for too long. “Go with my blessing, and sow me some chaos, dreamchild; my magic should ward bolts and spears from your hides. Try to cull off Thargon's Vanguard if you can, and destroy the Divine's warmachines. We will join the battle when the time is right.”

“The dragonkin we've Called await your command, Lord,” Asha'bellanar's brisk tone turned smug. “Hawke, I hope that you'll restrain yourself when the drakes enter the fray.”

Hawke rolled his eyes at her. Asha'bellanar was not very good at letting go of anything that she found remotely amusing, even be it from a question asked once and long ago, however long time stretched in between; her jibes had only gotten worse when his dragon form had reached maturity.

Asha'bellanar smirked in response, and stepped off the cliff into the air – and into the form of her high dragon, its deep red scales catching the pale light of the morning sun as she rose heavily into the air, gaining height. Hawke pushed himself into the Change more sedately, careful of the increasingly smaller form of his Lord by his side, then he stretched his wings briefly and luxuriously, enjoying the crisp, cold morning air. He took himself up into the air with a flare of his wings and a powerful leap, the wind singing past him, the chill air making the hot breath from his muzzle steam into white furrows around his jaws. Above him, Asha'bellanar roared, winging away towards the gleaming ranks of the Chantry faithful, and Hawke answered her call instinctively, threaded through with the dragon's fierce, primal joy, drawing level with her in the clouds. The Divine called this March one to end the Age of the Dragon. Razikale's Host would soon prove that it was but only the beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> And Hawke more or less becomes a dragon in the end, headspace wise. Leaning towards ambiguous endings recently and didn't feel much like writing smut. Thank you all for reading, hope you enjoyed this rambling fill as much as I had fun writing it. ^^ I'm unable to write much romance. Faffing around always gets in the way.


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